The Jaguar Knights (4 page)

“At least three, possibly five.”

The correct answer was eight, which she should know because the Guard certainly did. “And how many other men?”

“Inquisitor Schlutter for one.”

Ah! Schlutter’s unpleasant end was the inquisitors’ main grudge against Wolf. He wondered whether they had told the girl anything close to the truth; also whether she had been assigned to him as an agent of vengeance. His Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry had a very long memory.

“Inquisitor Schlutter committed suicide.”

“He was murdered!” she shouted, shaken out of her flippancy at last. “By an outlaw Blade, while you stood by and did absolutely nothing to help him!”

“It is bad manners to interfere in a private quarrel.”

“You murder and then joke about it?”

“You expect a serial killer to weep? We were sent to arrest Lord Gosse. He and his Blades had flown, leaving Sir Rodden behind to delay pursuit. Inquisitor Schlutter drew on him—drew on a Blade defending his ward! Coroners usually call that suicide, Hogwood.”

“But Schlutter was in charge. You were supposed to defend him. That was what you were there for! Instead, you waited until Rodden killed him and only then did you kill Rodden. You snuffed him like a candle, they said. If he was so easy for you, why did you wait until it was too late to save Schlutter?”

“It was my going-away present for the boy.”

She stared at him aghast, knowing that he spoke the truth.

Rodden had been Lynx’s best friend at Ironhall, and his death was entirely Schlutter’s fault. When Gosse’s other two Blades spirited their ward away, they left Rodden to cover their getaway, although he was by far the youngest. That was a breach of the code and Rodden quite rightly resented it. The trail was at least a day old by the time the King’s men arrived, so there was time to argue and heroics would do little good. He had understood that. Wolf could have talked him
into letting the King’s men go past, and that would have saved his life, if not his sanity. But Idiot Schlutter tried to arrest him at swordpoint. Rodden resisted, of course, and after that there was no hope for him.

Wolf’s turn. “Give me your professional opinion, Inquisitor. I know you have a golden key to open locked doors. Will it raise a portcullis?”

“No.”

“Knowing my brother, I am certain that Quondam was locked up tight three nights ago. Can you suggest any way the murderers could have entered such a fortress?”

“Treachery or conjuration.”

“Has the Dark Chamber any theories on who the raiders were?”

“I was told it does not.”

“A curious evasion.”

Her chin jerked upward. “Agents are told only as much as they need to know. To burden me with theories might bias my investigation.”

Her
investigation? The child had grand ideas.

“Does the Chamber know why they went to such lengths just to kidnap Celeste?”

“Their purpose is something we have to discover. The Baroness may be irrelevant. My turn: Why did you accept binding to a man you hated?”

Her excessive interest in Wolf’s past probably meant that she was after the Celeste story, which he had no intention of sharing with her, relevant or not.

“Stupidity.”

“His or yours?”

“Both. By the time Malinda abdicated, I was ripe for binding. One fine spring evening Grand Master summoned us seniors for a little pep talk. The new King was on his way, he said. For five years, he reminded us, Ironhall had given us bed and board, refuge and education. We were rightly proud of what we now were, but Ironhall had made us so. When His Majesty chose to present the bill, it behooved each of us to honor that debt. Of course we all knew that the paradigm ingrate, the one who had refused binding many years before, had been the new King’s father, Radgar Æleding. There would be an odor of justice in the air if any of
us chose to turn that table on Athelgar himself, but we all promised solemnly not to weasel out.

“Who would be chosen? There were fourteen seniors and Grand Master was sure to hold back four or five to seed the next crop. Lynx and I were eighth and ninth, although we did not know which was officially which. I was privately resigned to being left behind as Prime. It was two years since I had shamed Athelgar at fencing. Judging by the way I had caught him looking at me on subsequent visits, his pride had never healed, so he would not want me lurching around the palace for the next ten years to remind him of that humiliation. I was certain he would assign me to some petty bureaucrat as a private Blade.”

Next day Athelgar entered Ironhall for the first time as king. At his side rode a pudgy, red-haired young man. The candidates could not guess who he might be, but they knew where to ask, and the Guard graciously informed them that the popinjay was Garbeald Aylwining, childhood friend of His Majesty, recently come from Baelmark. Neither Ambrose nor Malinda had ever brought spectators along to a binding. Nervous and suspicious, the seniors retired to their dorm to await the ordeal.

Parsewood always sent for the required number plus one, and an hour or so later the Brat arrived with a summons for the top nine, which was about what Wolf had expected. Putting on a brave front, the Blades-elect strode out to meet the monarch, loftily ignoring the excited juniors boiling along beside them.

In the chilly, barren flea room they lined up before Grand Master and the King, while the mysterious Garbeald leaned against the wall with arms folded, watching the proceedings in contemptuous silence. The boys were shocked by their first close look at the two Court dandies. From the plumes on their bonnets to the pointed toes of their buskins, they sparkled and shone. Their polychrome sleeves were puffed and slashed beyond all reason, while their capes and jerkins came down only to their waists, exposing silken hose like paint from ankle to buttocks and gaudy, padded codpieces spangled with jewels. These were the new palace fashions that had appeared since the old Queen departed, featuring the new King’s taste. They made Parsewood look like a shabby old crow in his Ironhall patches, and the candidates even shabbier.

“Prime Candidate Viper,” Grand Master mumbled, “His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”

Viper agreed that he was, paid homage to the King, and was granted a gracious few words of welcome. Then came Second…and so on. Wolf had put himself at the end of the line, but when Number Seven, Hengist, had kissed the royal fingers, Parsewood passed over Lynx.

“Candidate Wolf, His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”

Wolf snapped back to the beating of hooves, moonlight like crystal, the iron world of winter…

“I never expected him to want me,” he told Hogwood. “I stared right at him—which is not proper protocol with a king, of course—and he sneered back at me, daring me to let him put a sword through my heart in the binding ritual. If it missed by a hair’s-breadth, I would die, and Baels are not known for compassion. But all my friends were watching, so I had no choice. I walked forward and knelt to kiss his fingers.”

“The logic escapes me,” she said.

“It escapes me now, but I was nineteen then. His Majesty said, ‘I do recall Candidate Wolf’s skill with steel.’ Who was laughing now? Well enough! It was an honor to be remembered by my sovereign and if he had left it there, as his mother would have done, then we could have all smiled and admired His Grace’s grace. But Athelgar Radgaring has the tact of a crotch louse.

“ ‘Ready for a rematch, are you, Wolf?’ he said.

“That was gloating. Yes, he was my King and I should have bridled my tongue. I didn’t. I said, ‘Don’t worry, this time I won’t be armed.’ ”

Hogwood gasped. “That was insolence!”

“That was stupidity! I told you it was stupid.” Wolf increased the pace, ending the conversation—but not ending the memories.

Parsewood said hastily, “Finally, sire, I have the honor of presenting Candidate Lynx, who will henceforth serve Your Majesty as Prime, here in Ironhall.”

Lynx bowed. That should have been that. The candidates waited for dismissal.

“Well, my friend,” the King said, “who do you fancy?”

“Viper, I think,” Garbeald said in a bored drawl. “I like his taste in names. And that last one. He is so incredibly ugly!”

Athelgar laughed. “He doesn’t need a sword—he frightens people to death.” He smiled again. “But I want to bind Candidate Wolf personally.”

The Bael shrugged and pointed at Hengist. “That one, then.”

Athelgar nodded to Parsewood.

“Candidates Viper and Hengist stay a moment,” Grand Master said. “The rest of you may go.”

He in the Guard, his friend Hengist a private Blade, and Lynx as Prime—all Wolf’s predictions had been wrong and he was in shock as he followed the others out. They trooped downstairs to gird on their swords again, then to head out to the quad and the cheers of the assembled juniors. One of the knights was waiting below, congratulating each man in turn, but when it came to Wolf’s turn, he added, “A word with you, Candidate.”

The others departed, leaving the two of them alone.

Durendal, Lord Roland, former Lord Chancellor, and greatest of all Blades since his legendary namesake who founded the Order—even the cynical seniors held Durendal in awe. Widowed and bored in retirement, he had come to live at Ironhall the previous year, and although he refused any formal title or duties, the entire place soon revolved around him. He could explain anything better than anyone, see farther, say more in fewer words. In fencing, strategy, or statecraft he was the supreme expert. He had a kind or humorous word for everyone and he spoke to the grooms in the stable the same way he spoke to Grand Master.

“You did not spit in the King’s eye, I hope?”

“Not quite, my lord.”

Roland frowned. “Good. I was a little worried. I just wanted to tell you that it was my idea.”

“What was?”

“Separating you and Lynx. Blame me. I suggested it to Grand Master. For Lynx’s sake, Wolf.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” Roland’s smile took the sting out of the contradiction. “He needs a few months without you. You’ve been mother and father to him too long.”

“He’s only seventeen! He can’t handle being Prime! Some of those oafs have two years on him!”

The young ones might be worse, though. Lynx was bigger than Wolf, better-looking, much better liked, and potentially a better fencer, although even there he tended to be too easygoing. Wolf told him he lacked the killer instinct, never dreaming how that humor would return to haunt him. Lynx’s binding should
take care of that weakness in due course, but he would not have binding to help him to handle the junior rat pack. They could make his life one big torment.

Roland laughed. “They’ll all stand on their heads for him. Go out there and tell him you’re proud of him and expect him to do a great job—which he will.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Wolf, Wolf! He needs a chance to prove himself. You proved yourself years ago collecting those scars.” He clapped Wolf’s shoulder. “Let him wipe his own nose for a while. Understand?”

“I do trust your judgment, my lord.”

Durendal just smiled at the sarcasm. “I am flattered! Vicious has been pruning out older men, so the Guard is below strength. Believe me, Lynx will be along to join you by summer.”

“And what about this Garbeald?”

Roland glanced at the stair and frowned. “Who’s missing?”

“Viper and Hengist.”

“Ah. And if His Majesty chooses to assign two Blades to his friend, will you complain to him?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Kings are not always right, Wolf, but they’re always kings. And don’t you worry about tomorrow night. Athelgar won’t miss.”

Wolf said, “You’re certain of that?” It was his heart they were discussing.

Durendal smiled. “Oh, yes. A monarch must consider his reputation.”

The wind was rising, swirling snowflakes over the icy ground in fairy dances. Moonlight shone on corpse-pale clouds piling up in the west, suggested a storm, which at these temperatures would be a killer. They still had two-thirds of the way to go.

The next time they dropped back to a walk, Hogwood said, “Obviously the King did not kill you.”

“You snoops are wonderfully observant.”

“I cannot imagine how any of you find the courage to sit and let someone drive a sword through your heart.”

“There’s no real danger,” Wolf said. “We’ve all seen it done a hundred times before we have to do it ourselves.”

Expect him. Conjury always gave him a thundering headache, and after four hundred years the Forge was so tainted by spirituality that he had never stayed there long enough to watch a binding completed. That night he had no choice and within the octogram itself the effect was murderously intense. He was barely conscious as he stumbled through the words of the oath. When he sat on the anvil with Lynx and Modred holding his arms, he knew vaguely that the King was taking much longer than usual to line up the stroke, letting the point of the sword wander all around the target chalked on his bare chest, but all he was thinking was that he wanted Athelgar to kill him quickly and put him out of his misery.

“So you won the dare,” Hogwood said. “You
won
! Why do you still hate the King?”

She was still fishing for the Celeste story, and Athelgar had ordered him to keep it secret.

“It’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you so interested in me, inquisitor? Are you investigating this Quondam mystery, or me?”

“Professional curiosity, Sir Wolf. You are a curious case. You are a perfectionist, the smartest man in the Guard. You named your sword
Diligence
and you polish it about six times a day. You rarely apply the seduction skills that are the main compensation for being a Blade, and when you do form a sexual pairing, it never lasts long. You show no interest in other men. The Guard’s confidential file on you describes you as a ready killer who enjoys killing. Understandably, you have no close friends. Is that really all that drives you—a love of killing?”